


How To Seduce a Woman (In 5 Easy Steps)

by Kestrealbird



Category: Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Scathach, Carmilla Angst, Carmilla being a Disaster, Dancing, F/F, Fight me on that one, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbian Scathach, Longing, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Slow Burn, background DiarCu cuz I have to write them in everything I guess, lesbian carmilla, oh my god someone please get Carmilla some therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25032328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrealbird/pseuds/Kestrealbird
Summary: In which Carmilla attempts to seduce Scáthach and ends up being the one seduced
Relationships: Scathach | Lancer/Carmilla | Assassin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	1. Dance With Her

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what my update schedule for this is gonna be but goddammit SOMEONE has to make content for this ship and if it has to be than so be it! 
> 
> Slight TW here because there are brief references to Carmilla being forced to dance with older men in her past

It’s a royal banquet that Dr Roman drops them into. Not literally, of course, but it may as well have been for all the warning he’d given them before shoving them into the rayshift with naught but fancy clothes in their hands, and a forged invitation stashed in Scáthach’s pocket. Carmilla can understand why _she’s_ here, given her own background, but Scáthach makes very little sense. For all she knows of the older woman, Scáthach has never attended a formal event in her long-lived life, and her discomfort in the court is near laughably obvious.

Supposedly there’s a mage here that may or may not be trying to poison the local lords, which would be terribly inconvenient for everyone, since most of the lords here aren’t meant to die for another thirty or so years. 

Honestly, you’d think people would learn by now that trying to change history never works out in favour of anyone. But fools will be fools, she supposes, and there’s not much anyone can do to change that.

Scáthach shifts beside her, again, mouth pulled into a frown as she fusses with the cuffs of her shirt. She’d been given a dress to wear but Carmilla had taken one look at the nervousness on her face and promptly shoved said dress into a closet, then taken her to a local tailor to get fitted - rather quickly - for a proper suit. 

It fit her well, in Carmilla’s unbiased opinion. And of course it did - Carmilla had overseen the proceedings herself, and been _very_ particular about the details. The tailor _had_ tried asking Scáthach instead, but she’d ended up looking helplessly at Carmilla for help, trying her best not to shift from foot to foot.

For a warrior she was remarkably terrible at staying still when she was unsure of herself. It was...surprisingly endearing, almost. If Carmilla was the type to find things endearing, which she wasn’t. 

They hadn’t travelled _so far_ back in time that women wearing suits was _completely_ unheard of, but by the looks they kept gathering it was still very much “out of the norm,” not that Carmilla could give much of a rat’s arse about such things. Scáthach either didn’t notice the staring (unlikely) or was too focused on their target to care (far more likely), yet her fidgeting never ceased.

It would’ve, on anyone else, been annoying, but Carmilla _did_ pity her - only a little bit, naturally. She was much too cold-hearted for anything like _sympathy,_ and they weren’t _friends_ either. 

Scáthach was _attractive_ though, and Carmilla was somewhat glad that she could take in such attractiveness at her leisure without it seeming out-of-place. She was nothing at all like what Carmilla would go for if she fancied herself a date or, more often, a night of quick fun - no, not at all. She wasn’t young enough; her hair was too short, cut into an angled bob, and her hands were calloused and weathered with age and time, her face lined with wrinkles about her mouth and eyes, and she was greying at the temples.

Scáthach was attractive, true, but she was the polar opposite of the kind of woman Carmilla usually went for. So it was odd that, for some _unfathomable_ reason, she simply couldn’t stop _looking_ at the woman beside her.

 _It’s the suit,_ she reasons to herself. She’d had it made too perfectly, and it was drawing her eye to every flexing muscle in Scáthach’s arms, the popped button at her throat, exposing just enough skin to make Carmilla shiver. It glittered in the lights of the banquet, and the deep purple was a large contrast to the flamboyant, over-the-top colours of every other person in the room.

She didn’t stand out, necessarily, but any eye that passed this corner of the room always lingered a few beats longer than it should’ve on her. Carmilla almost felt jealous.

“If she does have poison,” Scáthach says finally, nose screwed up tight. “I hope she takes me first.”

Carmilla withholds a smile behind her hand. “Not a fan of pampered life?”

“Hm,” Scáthach grunts. “Not my idea of a good time I’m afraid.” 

Carmilla swirls her wine with practiced efficiency and disinterest. Scáthach’s voice is rough and low, as always, and it sends a pleasant vibration through Carmilla’s bones. “Pity,” she replies, “I’d’ve liked to see you dance with the rabble.”

“You’d be disappointed.”

“Not a dancer?”

“I can dance,” Scáthach says drily, “if you’re fine with a partner who has no rhythm.”

“You?” Carmilla gasps, “no rhythm? Perish the very thought.” She gestures to the room at large, lips pulled back in a grin. “I’m sure you’re better than most of the fools here.”

Granted the fools here have been at the wine a might too long to properly show off their skills, but one of them bumps into a table and almost spills his ale on his date, and Carmilla takes that as having her point proven.

Scáthach rolls her eyes, unconvinced. “Comparing me to drunkards? How flattering.”

“Come now, Scáthach, I’ve seen you with a spear - you have enough rhythm on the battlefield not to get yourself killed.”

“Fighting and dancing are two different things.”

Delicately putting her wine on the table next to her - the glass is far too expensive to risk damaging -, Carmilla places an easy hand on Scáthach’s shoulder, voice lowering to a purr. “Oh I very much beg to differ there.” 

She waits patiently for the blush to appear on Scáthach’s face, or for her eyes to widen, maybe for her heart to sound stuttered. That’s what usually happens; even the straightest of women cannot help how they swoon under her attention. 

Until now, apparently, because none of it _does,_ and that is _simply_ unacceptable.

It doesn’t matter if Scáthach isn’t her usual treat; Carmilla _knows_ the effect she has on women - though, admittedly, it doesn’t always end well for her - and the lack of reaction to her efforts, however mild, is, quite frankly, _insulting._

Scáthach isn’t that much shorter than Carmilla, but Carmilla’s heels add enough height to her that when she presses herself against Scáthach’s arm, looping their elbows, she can almost tuck Scáthach’s head under her chin. 

She's tempted to, but already Scáthach is stiffening under her, a clear sign of discomfort at the sudden invasion of personal space. The only reason Scáthach doesn't push her away, she thinks, is because neither of them wish to cause a scene. 

Not yet anyway.

Voice low enough that only Scáthach can hear her, Carmilla murmurs, “dance with me.”

Scáthach’s eyes flicker in her direction. Carmilla meets her gaze with a confidence learned over years of practiced seduction. Huffing a breath, Scáthach inclines her head in a simple nod and lets Carmilla lead her into the proper form. 

Her arm hovers over Carmilla’s waist, hand clenching and unclenching, and her mouth is pulled in a concentrated frown, brows furrowed. Scáthach’s posture is stiff and awkward and the poor woman clearly has no idea what she’s meant to do with, well, anything, really.

Taking pity, Carmilla readjusts them so Scáthach’s hand is on her shoulder instead and Carmilla’s rests in the middle of Scáthach’s back. “Don't worry,” she says, “I’ll lead this time.”

Scáthach quirks a brow. “This time?”

“Of course. I expect that once you learn the steps you’ll take over.”

“You don’t usually lead then?”

“Sometimes,” Carmilla admits, leading them into easy steps. “Most women are used to being lead, but there are others who prefer to do the leading when given the chance.”

Scáthach looks down at their feet as they move, determined to keep pace and not step on Carmilla’s toes. “And you?” she asks. “What role do you prefer?”

“My dear,” Carmilla smiles, fangs glinting in the bright lights of the room, “I prefer whatever position leads to the most amount of fun.”

“Hmm.” Scáthach’s eyes are sparkling, her mouth tilting up at the corners, and the wrinkles of her face soften. Carmilla feels the urge to reach out and touch them; map every single one and feel them move beneath her fingers when Scáthach smiles or frowns or, even rarer, laughs.

She’s only heard her laugh once; it was a rough sound - not unlike the low rumbling of distant thunder - and she wonders, now, how it would feel if Scáthach laughed into her mouth, if it would travel through her skin and settle pleasantly in her bones.

A stupid, naive thought. She’s starved of company and Scáthach is nothing more than a brief fancy to tide her over until she gets into someone else’s skirt or trousers. 

Carmilla knows better than to try and capture thunder. She’d learned that lesson the hard way, decades ago, now, and she has no plans to do so again. No matter how attractive Scáthach is, or how endearing her awkwardness when she stumbles on a turn, narrowly missing Carmilla’s foot with a wince.

No, Carmilla will not chase after thunder. Not anymore.

A box step is simple enough to learn, a nice and steady rhythm of 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3 and Scáthach picks it up quite nicely, only having minor stumbles along the way. She doesn’t once look up from their feet, which is fine, if not a little disappointing, but Carmilla is a professional and so doesn’t let it get to her. Not at all. 

“For someone who claims not to have any rhythm,” Carmilla drawls, amusement coating her tongue, “you’re a remarkably fast learner.”

Scáthach finally lifts her head enough to reply, “anyone can learn these kiddie steps,” and then, surprisingly, takes Carmilla’s hand off her back, intertwines their fingers, and switches to a leading role. “Teach me the other ones?”

Something dangerous flutters inside her stomach when she looks into that piercing, curious gaze, and she’s struck with a thirst so heavy and sudden that it leaves her fangs _aching_ in her mouth. Their hips are very close to touching and Scáthach’s hands are firm where they hold her.

People are beginning to stare. Normally this would not bother her but she knows well how drunkards respond to pretty women dancing with each other so intimately, and the good Doctor had asked them not to cause too big of a scene, so she steps out of Scáthach’s space, pulling them both to a stop, and tells herself that it has nothing to do with whatever she had just felt.

She isn’t _running,_ she's just - taking a breather. That's all.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Carmilla says, smoothing down her dress’ skirt.

Scáthach lets her go, hands sliding across the fabric of her dress and the exposed skin of her shoulder, leaving goosebumps in her wake. Carmilla resists the urge to down the rest of her wine in one gulp, if only so she can stop _staring_ for goodness sake.

“Thank you for teaching me.” Carmilla blinks but Scáthach isn’t looking at her, eyes drawn back to their target with a lasered focus.

She clears her throat. “Well, you’re not the worst student I’ve ever had.”

“You must have had some truly terrible ones then.”

“You’ve no idea.”

“Not all of us are skilled in the finer arts I suppose,” Scáthach drawls.

“They picked it up eventually,” Carmilla huffs.

“I’m sure they did,” Scáthach agrees with a nod. “After all,” she continues, “you make for a wonderful teacher.”

“I should think so, given all my _experience._ ” She doesn’t mean for it to come out quite that flirty and she barely manages to resist the urge to cross her arms under her bosom, giving Scáthach an ample view of her cleavage. As if the dress she’d chosen for tonight isn’t doing enough of _that_ already.

Scáthach either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, gaze fixed firmly on their target. Evidently, whatever has just transpired between them is over with; a spell broken and to be ignored for the foreseeable future.

Well, that’s fine, she supposes. It’s not like she really expected much from her companion anyway. “I’m going to mingle,” she announces, striding through the crowd before she can think better of it.

If she’s lucky she’ll be able to avoid any undue conversation and get close enough to the stupid mage that she’ll be able to sink her claws into the woman’s throat and be done with it. _Don't cause a scene,_ she scoffs, _they’d probably just mistake the blood for deep wine stains anyway._

* * *

She does not, as it turns out, manage to avoid undue conversation, and is stuck with the very thankless task of making irritating small talk with absolutely everyone who so much as breathes in her direction, which means she has to suffer the combined smell of alcohol and fish and some strange grey thing every few minutes.

Deep breaths do absolutely _nothing_ to calm her as they just succeed in making the smell about a hundred times worse for her nose, so Carmilla is stuck clutching her own skirts in an iron-clad grip, smile so strained on her face it’s beginning to hurt her cheeks, and wishing she’d just stayed in Scáthach’s corner, away from all of _this_ shit.

Carmilla manages to get a break of what feels like a thousand years later to hunt down a glass of water to quench her parched throat. The mage they were meant to be keeping an eye on fucked off ages ago, scowling at Carmilla for keeping everyone in the room occupied, and Scáthach had followed her. She’d watched Scáthach leave from the corner of her eye and thinks she ought to check up on her, see if she has any need of help, which is _incredibly_ unlikely, but it’ll give Carmilla an excuse to _leave_ this wretched place at least.

Halfway to the doors, however, she gets waylaid by one of the lords she’d spoken to earlier, an older man who’d introduced himself with no less than ten names, none of which she’d bothered to remember.

“Aren’t you a lovely darling,” the lord asks in what might be an attempt at seduction, but may just be his natural patriarchal sleaze, “with hair so pale and soft and your lips a pretty red. Dance with me, won't you?”

“My Lord,” she smiles, acid burning her mouth, “what a surprise to see you -” _sober_ \- “mingling, still. Unfortunately, I fear I may have had too much to drink, and I feel rather tired,” Carmilla hedges. “I’m sure there are many other young women who’d prove to be more satisfying for company than myself.”

The lord’s eyes narrow, an expression Carmilla is more than familiar with on men of his station. He’s used to getting what he wants and doesn’t respond well to rejection, which is just perfect. The icing on the cake for her night, really. “You presume,” he starts slowly, “to know what will satisfy me?”

Carmilla grimaces at the slimy sensation crawling down her spine and scratches a nail against her palm to calm herself. “Of course not. I simply don’t wish to dampen your mood when I step on your toes for the fourth time.”

The lord’s expression clears once more, warm and deceptively inviting. It’s disgusting to look at. “Rest assured that your company is joyful enough and join me on the floor.”

She’s just about to shove her hand right into his sternum, causing a scene be damned, when an arm, familiar in weight, settles around her waist and she’s pulled none-too-discretely into Scáthach’s side.

“My apologies for cutting in,” Scáthach says, sounding anything but, “but my companion and I have overstayed an hour longer than we planned and we really must be getting on.” Scáthach leans into the lord’s space when it looks like he might object and her voice takes on a sterner, more frightening tone. “I trust that won't be a problem?”

“...no,” the lord agrees finally, “not a problem at all. I wish you the best of nights,” he nods to Carmilla and then turns and flees to the other end of the room.

“I’m sorry,” Scáthach says quietly, scowling at the back of the Lord’s retreating head, “that you had to deal with all of that.”

Had she been watching them the whole time? Hiding in the shadows, lurking, just in case something went awry? Stupid questions; of course she had. That was part of the job, wasn’t it? 

“Don't be,” Carmilla replies. “It was just a dance.”

Scáthach does an impressive display of looking like she’s simultaneously constipated _and_ swallowing something particularly sour at the same time. Maybe she’s trying to think of something comforting to say; if she is, then Carmilla wishes her the best of luck, because there’s no sentence on this earth that could make Carmilla feel better about this situation.

“I wouldn’t have let him take any liberties. I know how to deal with men who feel entitled to every pretty girl they lay eyes on.”

“I’m aware.” Carmilla has no time to respond to that before Scáthach continues, “but you shouldn’t have to dance with someone if you don’t want to.”

Oh but if only someone had told her that when she was younger and surrounded by adults who cared more about her position than they did about her. If only she’d had someone to come to her aid in those times and fend off the men who acted as if she owed them, and the women who pretended at friendship just to get her good favour. 

“No,” Carmilla agrees, “I shouldn’t. Lucky for me,” she says, nudging Scáthach’s shoulder, “I had you here to step in for me.”

"You won't be so lucky next time," Scáthach tells her, pulling Carmilla more firmly into her side. 

Carmilla grins, a low salacious thing, an attempt to hide just how true that statement feels. "I'm always lucky," she purrs, accentuating the point by batting her lashes. 

Scáthach doesn't even have the decency to blush, which is very rude, in Carmilla's opinion, but she _does_ smile, and it's a small thing, barely there really, but it softens the lines around her eyes and sharpens the wrinkles near her mouth. 

Carmilla blames the sudden heat in her cheeks on - something else. She's not sure what yet, but it's _certainly_ not Scáthach. No, can't be, because Carmilla doesn't blush around pretty women anymore. 

She's far too old for that. 

Isn't she?


	2. Embarrass Yourself. Repeatedly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Carmilla is the not-so-proud inventor of the term "Disaster Lesbian"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was meant to be something wildly different but then Carmilla was like "hey why don't you self-project some of the embarrassing things you've done in front of hot women onto me" and I was like "you got it!"
> 
> Special thanks to Echo for listening to me gush about these gals in her DM's I love you <3

She hasn’t stopped thinking about that dance; about how strong  Scáthach  had felt under her hands, awkward movements quickly becoming more confident - not quite the effortless glide that Carmilla favoured, but skilled enough to warrant praise. Her fangs still ache whenever she thinks about how  _ right  _ it had felt to have  Scáthach’s hands on her waist, tucking her against her side protectively when that lord had overstepped. 

It hadn’t felt possessive, just - reassuring, maybe. And she  _ is  _ attractive; the longer Carmilla looks at her, the more she notices this fact, in all the little ways she hadn’t before. Scáthach has a habit of forgetting to bathe, she’s learned, and it  _ should  _ be unattractive - and it is - but it’s. Endearing, the way the side of her nose scrunches up and her tongue pokes out when she’s reminded of it.

She blows her hair out of her face whenever she’s annoyed; clicks her tongue to show disapproval; hums with her lips slightly parted - the list goes on and on and on, each discovery tucking itself tightly into Carmilla’s heart without permission.

Carmilla wonders what would happen if she offered to wash her one day - to really sink her fingers into that short hair and scrub it clean; to find the bath products that won’t irritate Scáthach’s skin, but still leave her with a pleasant, subtle scent. 

(Pear would suit her, Carmilla thinks, or perhaps apple if she were feeling more daring.)

Wonders what would happen if they danced again. 

Held hands down the street, fingers interlaced. 

“Christ,” she groans, digging her thumbs into the corners of her eyes, “what the hell is wrong with me?”

Vlad doesn’t like her very much, but he makes for a good listener. Especially when he’s sewing up dolls and plush toys. “You have a crush,” he informs her simply, as if the very notion of that isn’t completely fucking absurd and  _ untrue. _

“I do not -!”

“I hate to break this to you,” he smirks, proving that he’s a liar, “but normal people don’t think this hard about someone who's just a ‘quick fancy’ for the night.” He finishes his stitch with a practiced flourish. “You’re fantasizing,” he continues, “about domestic bliss. Holding hands, Carmilla?  _ Really? _ ”

Oh.

_ Oh. _

* * *

The first time she sees Scáthach stretching herself upwards, shirt riding up enough to catch a tantalizing glimpse at the muscles hidden under her clothing, Carmilla can't look away, and ends up bruising part of her face when she slams it into the doorframe.

"Fuck," she hisses, gingerly reaching up to prod at her cheek, wincing at the dull ache already forming.

"Are you okay?" It's Scáthach, _ of course it is,  _ that's just her luck that she'd embarrass herself in front of the woman she maybe-kinda-sorta  _ might  _ have a crush on. Possibly. Carmilla glares at the door frame as if it had made the conscious decision to ruin her composure, and when she turns back to Scáthach she sees concerned, ruby red eyes flicking to the bruise blooming on her face. 

Oh no. Oh,  _ god, _ no, she did not just - just compare someone’s eyes to a fucking  _ ruby  _ like she’s a protagonist in one of Vlad’s stupid fucking romance novels with the painted covers and dramatic posing and the horrific prose -

Except that she  _ did, _ and now it’s going to haunt her for the rest of her vampiric life. 

_ Fuck. _

“Carmilla?” Scáthach frowns at her, concern growing more and more the longer that Carmilla doesn’t answer her earlier question - not that she can really remember what it was to begin with - and that just won’t do at all. 

“Uh-huh.” Way to go, Carmilla. Real smooth of you.

“I asked if you were okay. You hit the door rather hard, and your face looks…” she trails off with a barely concealed grimace, biting her bottom lip - and  _ really,  _ how is that fair when all it does is draw Carmilla’s attention to how chapped said lips are, and how she suddenly wants to reach out and smooth them with her own personal gloss. Pathetic.

“Yeeaauupp. I’m good.” Brain-damaged, probably, though whether that’s from the door or her own bullshit feelings she has yet to figure out. 

Scáthach’s eyes narrow with something like disapproval, and she clicks her tongue, lowering her hand away from Carmilla’s face and  _ no no no bring that back, you were so close to touching skin _ and she  _ really  _ needs to know what Scáthach’s callouses feel like against her cheek for - research. Purposes. Very important ones. Lesbians everywhere would appreciate them. 

“Alright,” Scáthach says slowly, “if you’re sure.”

She isn’t, but she’s not saying that  _ now. _ “I am,” she replies confidently.

“Mm,” says Scáthach, and - “I’ll see you around, then.” 

Carmilla watches her go, face tingling from the almost touch - or maybe that’s the bruise, it’s very hard to tell, actually - and, once she’s sure the woman is suitably far away, thunks her forehead against the wall.

She’s doomed. 

* * *

"See you around," apparently translates to 'running into each other at every possible opportunity but never having enough time to actually talk for more than five seconds,' because god forbid Carmilla's life ever be an easy one.

They  _ were _ beginning to hang out more, be it simply walking side by side down the halls or sitting knee-to-knee on a chair that was definitely made for one, but Scáthach never complains about Carmilla squashing up beside her, dangerously close to one of them ending up in the other ones lap, so Carmilla keeps - doing it. Repeatedly. 

She couldn't  _ be _ more obvious about her crush if she tried but Scáthach says nothing about it so clearly she's dealing with the densest person on the planet, which is just lovely, and she can't tell whether it's a blessing or a curse.

She knows, now, that Scáthach is fascinated by horrors and thrillers, eagerly leaning forward at every obvious jumpscare and laughing - so low and  _ rough, _ like distant thunder over the hills, the kind you hear when there's no rain and the sky lights up with every strike of lightning - whenever one of the people on screen sets themself up for the next trope to be murdered.

She doesn't see the appeal herself; it's more satisfying to feel the blood yourself than it is to see it spraying across a screen, but she supposes this is just an artistic difference between them. Hardly a deal breaker by any margin.

Scáthach has jam toast and scrambled eggs for breakfast every morning, the toast always burnt around the edges, and she hates orange juice because it tingles on her tongue. She likes bacon with soy sauce and drinks whiskey on the rocks, and Carmilla  _ misses _ her so, so much.

It's been so busy lately that neither of them have had time to so much as glance at each other and it's getting  _ ridiculous.  _

With the surplus of missions and tasks that have overtaken Chaldea lately, Carmilla  _ should _ be focused on getting used to working with different people, regardless whether she likes them or not, or simply sparring against the smorgasbord of Caster’s that keep popping out of the woodwork like weeds, but instead she finds herself mindlessly checking all the areas she knows to be popular among the Celtic lot.

The gardens, the library, the hot springs, the cafeteria where she is now, silently seething in a corner and trying to ignore all the hustle and bustle around her. She doesn’t normally eat here but she’d popped her head in just for a quick glance and been almost instantly flagged down by Kiyohime and Shuten, and it would’ve been rude of her to ignore her friends. 

She  _ was  _ raised with manners, despite all her sneering as of late, and it might do her good to stop aimlessly searching for someone who's hardly around anymore.

“You’re awfully restless lately,” Shuten says, popping another peach candy into her mouth. She shares a look with Kiyohime. Carmilla instinctively hates it.

“What are you talking about?” she asks defensively, crossing her arms and lifting her chin with defiance. Shuten shrugs but Kiyohime reaches out to give her a consoling pat on the arm. With anyone else, such a display would’ve seemed patronizing, but the look in Kiyohime’s eyes stops Carmilla from snapping her head off then and there.

“You’re pathetically mooning over that scots woman,” she says bluntly. Carmilla gapes at her, trying to form absolutely any sound that isn’t best described as ‘fish out of water’ while Shuten chokes on her sweet where she inhaled air too quickly. Kiyohime helpfully pats her on the back and patiently waits for Carmilla to say something.

“I am not,” she replies, trying to sound somewhat convincing. Neither of her friends are swayed; Shuten even raises a sceptical brow, lip twitching into a smirk. “Alright, fine,” she says. “But have you  _ seen  _ her?”

“Thought you preferred the younger ones,” Shuten muses because she’s a _ bitch. _

“I made an exception,” she sneers back, curling her lip just enough to appear threatening. Predictably, it has no effect on Shuten, who simply curls her own right back. 

“She’s attractive,” Kiyohime agrees. Hah! Take that Shuten. “I saw her sparring with Oryou yesterday. She was very -” she trails off suddenly, eyes drawn to the door and when Carmilla turns to see what’s caught her attention, she freezes in her seat with panic. Her heart starts to beat a thousand miles per second as the very person they’re talking about strolls into the room, flanked by two other people that Carmilla only vaguely recognizes.

Surely this is just coincidence. There's no way Scáthach could know that Carmilla has been looking for her like a lost puppy scratching at the front door when their owner leaves for more than two seconds. 

She can’t tell whether she has the best or worst luck ever when Scáthach makes a beeline towards her table with a beaming smile - like she's  _ happy _ that she's caught Carmilla after so long of not seeing each other - but she turns back to Shuten anyway and says, “oh my god she’s coming over how’s my -” and then breathes directly into her face, grinning when Shuten gags.

“Fuck, Carmilla, your breath is fine! That’s disgusting!” She snaps, grabbing her tray and leaving the table. Kiyohime stays long enough to give Scáthach a pleasant enough greeting, which mostly consists of a too-wide, unsettling smile, and then winks at Carmilla and slides after Shuten.

“Hey.” Carmilla had nearly forgotten how low and raspy Scáthach’s voice was and tries not to make it too obvious how flustered she feels. Scáthach still looks sleep-mussed, a hand dragging through her hair to tug out the tangles, eyes half-lidded and her movements a little slower than normal. It’s not fair in the slightest. “Medb said you've been looking for me?”

Not a coincidence then. Great.

Carmilla takes a breath before answering so nothing stupid comes out. Figures that the first thing Scáthach asks her is about is  _ this _ . “Just wondering how you were,” she shrugs. “Nothing life-threatening,” which was technically true, even if it  _ had  _ felt that way to her. 

“Can I?” Scáthach hesitates, gesturing to the seat right next to her own. Scáthach could do whatever she likes if it means having her sitting this close, quite frankly.

But that sounds a little too desperate so Carmilla settles for, “sure,” and very valiantly keeps still and silent as Scáthach’s fingers brush against her hand on the table as she sits down. They feel fucking  _ amazing  _ on her skin,  _ why  _ hadn't she touched Scáthach's hands more often before? 

Carmilla shifts her hand just enough to have their pinkies touch, and shivers when Scáthach intertwines them together.

“Hmm,” Scáthach hums, the sound vibrating right through Carmilla’s bones. “I missed you,” she murmurs honestly and Carmilla flushes a truly considerate amount, clearing her throat to stop her voice from cracking. 

"I - missed you too," she manages to say without stuttering too badly and Scáthach's smile warms and gentles, and she curls her hand completely around Carmilla's, thumb stroking her knuckles almost absentmindedly.

Carmilla leans back into her chair from the shock of it, lifting the front feet off the floor in the process - and completely misjudges how well made the chairs actually are, crashing to the floor as the legs beneath her snap under her weight.

Scáthach manages to catch her head before it hits the ground and if she wasn’t so damn pissed and embarrassed - again! - she might enjoy being cradled so. The commotion also causes Diarmuid - who’d been sleeping on the table behind her own - to whirl around and face them, wincing when he catches sight of the broken chair.

“Carmilla,” Scáthach says quickly, and oh how Carmilla wishes she could hear her own name on the woman’s lips every day - and in far more intimate contexts - forever. “Are you okay?”

“Physically,” she glares, letting Scáthach pull her to her feet and check her head for any injury. Great. The first time they get to talk in eons and she fucks it up by ruining her pride.  _ Again. _

Sighing, Carmilla holds Scáthach’s wrist to stop her fussing and says, “let’s just go out somewhere.”

Scáthach blinks, says, “just the two of us, you mean?” and Carmilla replies, “yeah,” without really thinking about it. 

(She doesn’t see the crooked smile on Scáthach’s mouth as she pulls her out of the cafeteria  _ or  _ the sultry wink from Medb that sends Scáthach’s face aflame.)

Luckily, she already has a destination in mind and it’s not too far from the mansion she’d brought herself just a few days ago; Chaldea was getting too full with company, so a lot of the richer Servants had started moving out and finding their own places to stay when they weren’t needed for anything in particular, and this was as good an excuse as any to check in on the decorating.

It doesn’t take them all that long to get there (the mini-rayshift had been a pain, as usual, because they’d had to wait for either Da Vinci or Dr Archaman to authorize it and Carmilla had never been a very patient sort) and Scáthach has no qualms about waiting in the gardens while Carmilla explores the rooms currently being done, frightening the humans out of their skins when she appears next to them without any sound to warn of her presence.

There’s nothing to criticize about their work and she’s even kind enough to give them an extra tip for doing so much in such a short span already, though that kindness might partially be due to the fact that Scáthach could see her through the window, and she didn’t want to look like a completely bitch in front of the woman she’s - 

Trying to impress.

_ Fuck _ .

* * *

As far as revelations go it’s not the worst she’s ever had. 

Trying to impress someone you have a crush on is a lot less surprising than learning about the crush itself, but it’s no less irritating to deal with once it’s been brought to your attention. At least now she knows why she’d been trying to show off the past few weeks whenever she got the chance.

Gods but she’s pathetic.

Surely there are better ways to try and impress someone then teaching them how to dance, smashing your face into a door, maybe kind-of stalking them, breaking a chair and then dragging them to a mansion that’s only halfway decorated. 

She used to be so much  _ better  _ at this crap before her stupid emotions got in the way. Ugh.

Her own grievances aside, it’s stupidly worth it to see Scáthach’s eyes light up as they walk through the tunnels of this aquarium, and though Carmilla doesn’t see what’s so fascinating about a bunch of fish, she doesn’t say a word about it, her gaze softening a considerable amount when Scáthach presses herself against the glass as though that will give her a better view of the Ray she’s been watching for the past ten minutes.

There aren’t any other people here; Carmilla had paid for them two have the whole place to themselves for a couple of hours - something she’s absolutely  _ not  _ telling Scáthach anytime soon, if ever - because she’d overheard Scáthach lamenting over the fact that she’d never seen such creatures up close while they were alive before and -

And she wanted to do something _ nice, _ for once, because she thinks that Scáthach deserves to be spoiled just a little. And if that means subjecting herself to learning that there’s a difference between a fish and a ‘mammal that lives underwater,’ well, that’s a small price to pay for the way Scáthach bites her lip to try and contain her wide, toothy smile.

“Why is it so...fleshy?”

Scáthach’s hand settles against the glass where the - she checks the sign - Beluga Whale presses its head, and Carmilla resists the urge to hold her other hand. “It’s called a melon.”

Carmilla stares. “What?”

“A melon,” Scáthach repeats, fanning her fingers across the tank.

“...that doesn’t explain why it’s fleshy.”

“Squishy.”

She huff's. “Whatever.”

“It helps with echolocation,” Scáthach tells her, finally turning away from the whale to give Carmilla her attention.

“Like a bat?” she jokes but Scáthach simply nods, a strand of hair catching on her lip that Carmilla brushes aside before she can think better of it, and absolutely  _ doesn’t  _ blush when her brain catches up with her actions.

“Do you think you’d be able to talk to it?”

Carmilla blinks. “Talk to...the whale?”

“Well,” Scáthach says, looking embarrassed, “yes? Because of the - echolocation. Thing.” She closes her eyes tightly, wincing at how absurd she sounds. “Saying it outloud makes it sound silly.”

“It is,” Carmilla agrees, amused. “You assume I can become a bat?”

She shuffles in place, licks her lips, rubs the back of her neck and shrugs. “Is that - I thought all vampires could -”

Christ help her but she cannot help laughing at Scáthach’s floundering. “I can,” she says once she can speak again, “but it’s not my preference.” 

“Ah,” Scáthach nods, “so you could -”

“No.” She starts walking back the way they came and Scáthach follows with an easy pace beside her. “Echolocation is used for navigating, not communicating.”

“Not like whales then.”

Carmilla smiles. “Not like whales.”

“A shame. It would’ve been fun seeing you flying above it, I think.”

Carmilla replays that sentence in her head a few times.

“You want to see me as a bat?”

“I’ve never really seen one before is all.”

“What do you mean you’ve never seen a  _ bat  _ before?”

“Exactly that,” Scáthach replies evenly. “Didn’t have them where I lived.”

It’s a completely absurd request and she absolutely won’t be doing it, because she’s ugly as a bat, no matter what anyone else might say on the matter, and there’s no way she’ll subject herself to that. None at all.

And then she sees the disappointment in Scáthach’s eyes and thinks, ‘fuck,’ and does it anyway, and she knows how it must look, her squashed up nose and ugly teeth and white fur, her wings large enough for one of them to completely cover Scáthach’s face, and her claws strong enough to tear through bone. 

She flies overhead, expecting any number of negative reactions, and is thus completely unprepared to hear Scáthach gasp beneath her and say, “oh. You’re so fuzzy and adorable.”

So unprepared, in fact, that she whips her head to look at Scáthach with as much incredulity as a bat can offer and only gets a split second of warning in the form of Scáthach’s eyes widening with panic before she flies headfirst into the wall, hard enough that she forcefully changes back to her normal appearance, and, dazed, falls into -

“Carmilla!”

Scáthach’s arms.

She’s going to think that Carmilla is the clumsiest motherfucker in the world at this rate.

* * *

Whether she thinks Carmilla to be clumsy or not, she’s far too kind to say, though Carmilla can spot the amusement dancing in her eyes whenever she trips on a stair or bangs her knee against the table. It doesn’t matter how often she stumbles, because Scáthach is  _ always  _ there to catch her, on account of the fact that Carmilla only loses all fights with gravity whenever Scáthach happens to be within the vicinity.

She never says a word about it, however, and Carmilla is grateful, truly, but it’s getting ridiculous how often she ends up in Scáthach’s arms as of late, no matter how lovely they are. She’s determined not to let it happen ever again, so, naturally, as if the fates are determined to prove her wrong, it keeps happening and she’s just fucking resigned herself to the fact that she’ll always look like a fool.

She hopes that Scáthach might find it endearing at the very least, instead of annoying or, gods forbid, mortifying.

And she still can’t believe that Scáthach called her - 

She crosses her arms and sticks her nose high into the air with a disdainful sniff. “I wasn’t  _ fuzzy, _ ” she says for what feels like the umpteenth time. “I was prickly.”

“Of course you were,” Scáthach responds politely, her lips stretched into a smile that says otherwise.

Carmilla’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “I was,” she insists.

“Prickly,” Scáthach agrees, then smirks, “ _ and _ adorable.”

Carmilla gapes after her, torn between offense and laughter. The nerve of her, to call a bat ‘adorable’ as if they didn’t have the ugliest little faces in existence. As if they weren’t just rats with wings and larger families.

“I wasn’t adorable, I was frightening.”

“Not to me.”

“Then you clearly have no sense.”

The look Scáthach gives her then is acidic, mouth pulled into an angry frown, her eyes blazing with fury. “You’re not half the monster you make yourself out to be,” she tells her and Carmilla -

Doesn’t know what to say to that. She is a monster, if not for being a vampire - a creature despised by God - then for her previous crimes that led to her turning to begin with, and yet, the way Scáthach says it implies she talks of something different - something more personal - and Carmilla’s throat seizes at the thought, her lungs constricting sharply on poisoned air.

If that’s the case then why did she ever end up marrying a man and giving him children? If what she says is  _ true  _ -

“If that’s true,” she asks quietly, numbness settling on her tongue, “then why was I slain for loving another woman?”

Scáthach has no answer for this but the pain in her eyes is one that Carmilla used to see in her own reflection and, for the first time since they met, she wonders if perhaps they are more alike than she had originally believed.

An arm settles around her shoulders, lips pressed tightly to the side of her head, and Carmilla closes her eyes as tightly as she can, forcing back her tears. She has long since given up crying over such things and she won’t do so here, no matter how much part of her might want to.

Shaking her head, she steps away from Scáthach’s embrace, brisk steps clicking down the street with renewed vigor. There’s a moment where she worries that Scáthach won’t follow her - that her refusal to stay on the subject has pushed her away - but then there’s a snap, a bitten curse, and she stumbles and Scáthach’s hands hold her tightly by the arm so she doesn’t face plant into the concrete.

She doesn’t even bother to look down at her shoe when she says, “my heel broke didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Scáthach winces, “it did.”

* * *

When Diarmuid hears about what happened to her heel a few days later, he grimaces so sharply that he jerks away from her and Carmilla feels a deep satisfaction that at least someone understands her pain. Those shoes had been  _ expensive. _

“What did she do afterwards?”

“Told me that I should invest in better footwear,” Carmilla scoffs.

“Disgusting,” says Diarmuid as he pointedly walks around a puddle to keep his own heels as dry as he can manage in this horrendous downpour. 

“You are,” Carmilla tells him seriously, “the only bastard on this earth that understands me.”

“I’m sure,” he replies drily. “It’s not like your girlfriend -”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“ - wife, then,” and he doesn’t get to finish that sentence before Carmilla sticks her foot out to trip him up, baring her fangs in a grin when he cusses her out and has to dance on the spot to right himself. 

“I don’t even know why she judged me! She has a pair of heels herself, doesn’t she?”

“Heels that were mine,” Diarmuid mutters beside her.

That explains why she only has one pair at least. “Stole them from you, did she?” He nods and sighs with practiced solemnity. “How tragic for you,” Carmilla says and then promptly stops dead in the street.

Diarmuid looks in the same direction as her, letting out a soft, “ah,” when he spots Scáthach stepping off the bus that neither of them had been willing to run after when it passed them earlier. 

“I’m beginning to think,” says Carmilla when Scáthach is close enough to hear her over the rain, “that you’re stalking me.” She keeps a tight grip on Diarmuid’s wrist to stop him from leaving her to her inevitable demise, and even from behind his glasses she can tell that the look he gives her is one made of ice.

Scáthach glances down at his wrist with a raised brow but does nothing to stop her. “I suppose,” she replies, “I’m not a very good one if you always see me doing it.”

“Maybe I should stalk you for a change,” Carmilla purrs. “Show you how it’s done.”

“Maybe you should.”

Diarmuid groans loudly, wrenching his wrist out of Carmilla’s hold. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he spits, “if I wanted you to suffocate me with your sexual tension I’d’ve asked.”

“Don’t you dare fucking leave me,” Carmilla hisses after him.

Scáthach blinks owlishly as she watches them and Carmilla wants to sob when she repeats, “sexual tension?”

“He’s being a prick,” Carmilla rushes to say at the same time that Diarmuid scrunches his nose and mutters, “you’re both so fucking stupid,” which is a fine thing to hear from  _ him  _ of all people, when  _ he’s  _ the one who climbed out of a five story window just because he suffered from the horrifying ordeal of having to talk about his problems.

“Carmilla,” Scáthach says tightly, voice a little higher than normal and Carmilla curses at the wide look in her eyes.

She takes a step towards her to - she doesn’t fucking know - to console her, maybe, or just convince her that Diarmuid’s joking and they’re fine, they’re just friends, there’s nothing more to Carmilla’s feelings whatsoever, nothing to scare her away for good.

It doesn’t even surprise her anymore when she steps into a puddle, one that happens to be a lot deeper than it looks, and she feels absolutely  _ nothing  _ as the water soaks into her shoes and her tights and her dignity. 

Diarmuid looks torn between grimacing at the sight of her ruined shoes and laughing at her foolishness. Hypocritical bastard. As if he's any better, constantly flushing whenever Scáthach's boy throws him a compliment or holds him close with an arm over his shoulders. 

Carmilla sighs and tries to think of the one thing that might distract Scáthach enough to forget about how humiliating all of this is. "Do you want to go for coffee?" 

* * *

They don't get a coffee. Carmilla's umbrella got wrenched out of her hand by a sudden force of wind, never to be seen again, which was just typical, really, and within two seconds she'd ended up just as drenched as her shoes. 

Diarmuid, the traitorous bastard he is, had politely said, "isn't your place nearby, Scáthach? Maybe she could dry off there," and then  _ miraculously _ disappeared not a moment later, and Carmilla had been ushered down the street, Scáthach's umbrella held awkwardly -  _ uselessly _ \- above her head to try and save whatever pride she had left.

It wasn't much, but she appreciated the effort all the same. 

So. No coffee. Which isn't completely terrible, since Scáthach is currently running her a bath, and the nightclothes she's letting Carmilla borrow look very soft and warm. And cute. They have little white teapots all over them, and the top has ‘sweet dreams’ written in gold cursive across the chest, above a picture of two otters on their backs holding hands.

Her shoes and tights have already been removed, and it's a little strange to stand next to Scáthach without that added height. She forgets, quite often, that they nearly stand eye to eye with each other, though Scáthach is - broader, definitely. 

Not by a whole lot, mind, but enough to be noticeable and Carmilla...really,  _ really _ likes it, she's discovered. 

Scáthach’s house is cozy but not at all simple in design; she has cabinets filled to the brim with fancy plates - ones brought for her by her friends, no doubt - and every room has wooden furniture and mismatched curtains and patterned wallpapers. There are plants in hanging baskets and a hammock in the kitchen. It’s almost obnoxious in it’s blatant disregard for any sort of planning but Carmilla...finds comfort in the chaos.

The entire interior reminds her of a cottage, even though the house itself is modern, and she’s charmed by the traditional homeliness of it all. There’s a garage attached to the house that is being used for storage, but it wouldn’t take much to clear enough space for her car to fit here and her dogs would enjoy going for a walk in the forest and running the length of Scáthach’s garden.

She couldn’t imagine herself living here forever but to stay here for - a few months one year and then have Scáthach visit her mansion for a few months the next, rinse and repeat, she’s sure they could manage something -

Oh. 

What was it Vlad had accused her of before? “Fantasizing of domestic bliss,” was it? He would have a field day if he knew what she was imagining now; compromise, comfort, curling up in front of a fire with a single wool blanket between them, bickering about what counts as proper decor.

All the things she would never, ever have.

Scáthach calls for her from the top of the stairs and Carmilla shakes herself of her thoughts, following the other woman into the bathroom, the single mirror pressed face down on the counter, the sweetness of the gesture coiling a sickness tight in Carmilla’s stomach even as she eases herself into the warmth of the water.

She closes her eyes with a sigh, sinking beneath the bubbles, not at all concerned that Scáthach hasn’t left the room. They’re both women, afterall, and it’s hardly anything neither of them have ever seen before.

“I didn’t have anything scented to put in it for you.”

Carmilla hums, reaching up to run her hands through her hair and feels an itch in her nose. “It’s fine,” she says and then sneezes over the side of the tub.

It’s not even a fucking cute sneeze either.  _ This,  _ she decides, as Scáthach frantically grabs tissues and checks her for any sign of fever,  _ is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. _   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scathach's servant outfit is different in my fics to how it looks in game but I kept her heels because I have a HC that when she came to Chaldea she was barefoot, hated the feeling of the halls, and so took the first shoes she could find and they happened to be a pair of Diarmuid's. He hadn't even had the chance to wear them yet rip

**Author's Note:**

> Originally Scathach was meant to dance with Carmilla all night and then dip her at the end which would fluster Carmilla but *gestures* this happened instead soooo


End file.
